


A New Tradition

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Childhood Memories, Christmas, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Music, Churches & Cathedrals, Don't copy to another site, Family Member Death, M/M, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2018, Protective Mycroft, Sad Greg Lestrade, Seasonal Sadness, Understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 16:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16936518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: The memory of Greg's grandmother has haunted his Christmas for as long as he can remember. It used to be comforting to sit in church and remember her, but somewhere along the line other events have coloured his reflections. Can a chance meeting help him recapture the magic of the festive season?





	A New Tradition

It didn’t matter how many years passed, memories of Greg’s grandmother were only ever a single trigger away.

The scent of lavender ( _watching her gnarled fingers smooth scented lotion over loose skin_ ), Easter cards in the shops ( _she never stopped sending them, even when he was far too old for the Easter bunny_ ), young children in knitted jumpers ( _her eyesight let her down long before her fingers forgot the actions they’d performed for decades_ ).

When the memories overwhelmed him, Greg found himself in church.

They were strongest at Christmas, and his life was busy; over the years, his visits had dwindled to only this time of year. She loved the festive season and now, as soon as October ticked into November and tinsel arrived on the shelves, her ghost appeared beside Greg. She gently pointed out the spices and dried fruit, candy canes and gaudy wrapping paper that sparked memories too strong to push away.

_Christmas._

As a small boy his chest swelled with pride when she deemed his best shirt acceptable to attend Mass at Christmas. The dark quiet church, ceiling stretching right up to Heaven, her warm hand around his fingers a sharp counterpoint to the cool air. It was the only time he every attended church; his parents never took him, nor did they protest this occasional foray into the Catholic faith.

It was special. The two of them speaking in hushed voices, Greg’s wide eyes watching the smooth grace of her fingers as she blessed herself, his small fingers fumbling to mimic the unfamiliar action. The incense lingered on his clothes the next day, reminding him of the quiet moments spent together in that holy space.

“God loves you,” she whispered. “And if you are a good boy He will greet your immortal soul in Heaven.”

“Will you be there?” Greg asked, his voice tiny in the cool air.

“I have prayed for forgiveness for my sins,” she replied. “I have faith He will welcome me.”

Greg did not understand her words but the calmness surrounding her comforted him. If she believed in this Heaven place, he would too.

“So we’ll be together?”

“I believe we will,” she answered, enfolding him in her arms. The incense and lavender combined, two strong fragrances cementing the moment in his mind.

_We’ll be together. Like at Christmas…_

When she died Greg remembered the promise. A small boy’s pain streaked through him, though he was a fully grown man at that point; only weeks out of the Academy and still working a beat. Tears threatened but he pulled them back.

After the funeral Greg found himself walking the streets, alone and at a loss. Two days until Christmas and the idea of celebrating without her…

The bells called him. Before he knew it, cool air enveloped his hot skin, long forgotten actions directing his hand as he blessed himself before taking a seat in the last pew. The silence settled over him like silk – the bells an old tradition rather than a genuine call to worship – and he felt grateful for the solitude. An hour later Greg emerged, far more at peace, ready to face Christmas.

It was the start of his tradition.

Christmas meant many different things through the years, but always there were solitary visits to church, remembering her, the pain changing slowly until the years rubbed off the sharp edges, leaving him with the dull ache of old grief.

This year, like many others, he made the journey late at night, after his shift had finished. St. Barnabas’ was open all night at this time of year; it was worth the time out of his way to sit in the quiet, nobody else to intrude on his solitude, and most years he came here in the days before Christmas. Occasionally a priest would walk by, sometimes offering a blessing.

Some years he accepted. There were years he was more morose, doubting the presence of God, let alone Heaven. Those years he refused. The priests never pushed it.

The quiet this year was cathartic, but it left him feeling washed out as he exited the building. It was not as late as some years, but the weather was atrocious, and Greg’s heart dropped at the idea of walking home. He always felt more alone now, her absence sharper than at any other time of the year.

Leaving church without her would never feel right.

Eying the steady rain, Greg sighed. There was no escaping it. He was going to get wet, but The Elephant & Wheelbarrow was only a couple of blocks away. If he could make it that far he’d have a beer waiting for him. Gran wouldn’t approve, probably, but he hoped her disapproval was the soft, affectionate kind.

The idea comforted him enough to get him moving, clattering down the stone steps, instinctively tucking his head down against the drops sliding down the back of his neck. The sound of the water hitting the footpath filled his ears. It wasn’t until he was well along the road his own name registered.

“Gregory!”

He turned, and was startled to see someone so close behind him. A second later, the absence of water dropping on skin made him glance up.

 _Umbrella_.

And in front of him: Mycroft Holmes.

“Hi,” Greg said, blankly. After spending an hour alone in contemplation, he wasn’t really ready to talk to people. His brain was still halfway in his childhood, a long way from here and now.

“Are you…might I offer you a lift?” Mycroft asked, the words sitting awkwardly in his mouth.

 _Fuck_.

Greg hesitated. He didn’t want to socialise, pretend he was okay. Years of experience had taught him the pattern: drink grimly all night, pour himself into a cab and take tomorrow off work.

It was just the way things were.

“Um,” he added, knowing Mycroft was waiting for an answer.

_How to say no politely._

The energy required for social politeness dropped over him like a wave, pulling him into exhaustion.

“I’m not…” Greg stopped, overwhelmed. _Where to begin?_ It felt too personal to share, too difficult.

“I don’t…” Nope, that wasn’t going anywhere either.

Almost fearfully Greg raised his eyes to meet Mycroft’s, hoping to explain himself. _Please understand._

“I have no expectations of conversation or further company,” Mycroft said quietly. “But I could not leave you to walk alone in the rain.”

Greg’s heart heaved unexpectedly at the quiet dignity of Mycroft’s words.

“Thank you,” he said finally.

They walked together in silence to Mycroft’s car, where he held the door while Greg slid inside, thankful for the leather seats – at least his wet clothes would not damage this gorgeous interior.

“Home?” Mycroft asked, settling beside Greg, his umbrella neatly furled.

His answer hovered on his lips. _Yeah. Clerkenwell. 16 Sapperton Court._ But his voice wouldn’t make it work.

_Home? And then what? Drink, cry, pass out._

Greg couldn’t answer, the thickness in his throat stopping his words. _Christ, why is this so difficult?_ He swallowed. He’d never had to share any part of this with anyone. His spiritual anonymity was carefully crafted in late nights and midweek visits and now Mycroft in his kindness had punctured that bubble more efficiently that he would even know.

“Can I offer quiet company?” Mycroft asked again.

Greg could hear the careful choice of words. He didn’t speak, instead waiting to see what Mycroft said next.

“I have no plans this evening,” Mycroft continued. “We could sit independently at our own pursuits if you wish. If you haven’t eaten, I can arrange a meal.” He paused. “You would be welcome to pass the night in my spare room.” His face flushed and he rushed to add, “I offer this with no expectations of course. Seeing you on the street…I just felt that perhaps you would not wish to be alone.”

Greg inhaled sharply, clarity washing over him. _I don’t want to be alone. I don’t know what I want…but I don’t want to be alone anymore._

_How did he see that?_

“Yes please,” Greg said. He could hear the hoarseness in his voice; the strangled sound was alien to his ears.

Thankfully, Mycroft did not comment, merely leaning forward to give his driver instructions.

Greg took the moment to look out the window, pulling himself together. He wasn’t sure exactly what Mycroft was offering – despite the clarity Mycroft had attempted, Greg’s heart still held confusion and a little fear. He was making a choice, doing something different to try and be…better. And it scared the hell out of him.

His world was small, and safe and tired and sad. He was sad. And this was a possibility for something else.

Anything else might be better.

When the car stopped, he glanced at Mycroft, waiting for the small nod to indicate this was the place. Climbing out of the car, he glanced surreptitiously around the neighbourhood. It was quiet, clean, rich.

Exactly what he expected.

Mycroft followed him out of the car, straightening his suit before flicking a glance at Greg. “This door,” he murmured, leading the way to an entry door identical to its neighbours.

“How do you know?” Greg asked as the key turned in the lock, trying for levity.

Mycroft looked at him. “Geraniums in the neighbours’ window-box,” he said seriously.

Greg nodded, feeling the joke fall flat. An awkward silence crept over his shoulders as he followed Mycroft inside. The home was immaculate, though in a hotel kind of a way. Apart from the umbrella stand in the hall there was nothing Greg could see that remotely reminded him of Mycroft. He wondered if this was where Mycroft spent his time, or if he had somewhere more comfortable. More _him_.

“Please come through,” Mycroft murmured, having taken Greg’s coat and hanging it beside his own.

Greg followed him out of the formal entryway down a short hallway and into the kitchen. The contrast with the entrance was remarkable.

This room was smaller, warm and inviting. The lighting was softer and small touches made it clear the room was used far more intimately. A towel hanging over the oven door, takeaway menus on the fridge, a container of coffee pods beside a small coffee machine. Greg found himself looking around more interestedly than he’d imagined he would. He wondered if Mycroft had picked the décor, if the expensive oven was chosen to facilitate a desire to cook or bake when his timetable allowed, which flavour coffee pods he favoured. _Details…_

“My offer was sincere,” Mycroft said, and Greg pulled his eyes away from the feature tile above the sink to meet his host’s eyes.

“What?”

Mycroft’s eyes were gentle and calm. “You may consider yourself free to use any part of this flat, with the exception of my office. As I mentioned, the spare bedroom is yours if you wish.”

“Thank you,” Greg said automatically. Mycroft nodded, but Greg knew he was still frowning, trying to work it out. “I’m not sure I understand, still. Why you would…stop. Earlier.”

Mycroft stopped and tilted his head. “I could not let you walk in the rain,” he answered.

It didn’t take Greg’s experience interrogating people to see he was holding something back. “Right,” Greg replied. “Well…it’s very kind.”

There was another pause, less awkward but still full of uncertainty. Greg crossed his arms, a little self-conscious at Mycroft’s steady gaze watching him.

“What would you be doing?” Greg asked, curiosity taking over. “If I wasn’t here.”

“I would make myself a cup of tea,” Mycroft said, “or perhaps a Scotch.” He considered the question again. Greg liked it. Liked it that Mycroft really thought about what he would say. “Tonight I believe I would find solace in a book. Perhaps some music.”

Greg nodded. If he’d been at home – well, he would probably still be at the pub now, a few drinks in and working hard to forget. Might even be at the point where he needed to get himself home.

“Is there something you’d prefer to do this evening?” Mycroft asked.

Greg swallowed. The open ended question was too much, overwhelming. He had no idea what he wanted to do.

 _I don’t want to be alone_. He breathed deeply, holding onto that one certainty.

“Er,” he managed. He looked away, embarrassed at his lack of decisiveness. “I don’t want…I don’t want to interrupt your evening,” he muttered. “More than I have.”

“Your presence will not interrupt my evening,” Mycroft said quietly. _Christ, he’s patient._ “Might I offer you some options?”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. Relief crept in alongside his deep weariness, pushing out just a little.

Mycroft stopped, thinking again. “There is a full bath in the en-suite,” he said. “You would be welcome to use it.” He paused. “I can make something to eat, if you would like. Something light. I could join you or not, whichever you prefer.”

Greg nodded, listening. Heart pounding as he realised how good it sounded. How kind Mycroft was being.

“After which the rest of the evening would be up to you. I have an extensive collection of movies, available in your bedroom or the sitting room.” Mycroft’s eyes surveyed him, and Greg could see him making a decision. “Perhaps that would be best? Again, I could join you or leave you to your solitude, whichever you would prefer.”

Greg stared at Mycroft. This quietly considerate man was nothing like the remembered Mycroft in their professional interactions. There had been glimpses there, a level of softness, but something was different.

It took him a few moments to see it.

The iron control he associated with Mycroft, the careful partitioning of his emotions, was gone. It was an openness Greg was not used to. The lack of guardedness around his words. They were carefully considered, of course – that was an integral part of his nature – but it was less about personal security and more empathetic. His eyes were assessing Greg even now, judging the effect of his suggestions, determining a path for their conversation.

Greg found it oddly moving. It spoke of a trust he had not realised existed between them. Perhaps Mycroft was extending something here? Greg was too tired to tell.

“That sounds great,” he said, pushing his face into the shape of a tired smile. “All of it…thanks.”

_How had Mycroft known what he needed?_

“This way,” Mycroft said.

As he trailed after his host, Greg realised a weight was gone now that decision for the evening had been taken out of his hands. The lack of anticipated hangover wasn’t terrible either, he had to admit to himself.

“Just a moment,” Mycroft murmured, leaving Greg standing in the bathroom. He returned with towels, a new toothbrush, cotton pyjamas. “If you wish to stay,” he added, placing the pile on the basin. Long fingers smoothed over the fibres of the towel before grey eyes met brown.

“Thank you,” Greg whispered. The moment was unexpectedly full, the air suddenly heavy. His eyes prickled, but he blinked, pushing the tears back.

_Why is this so difficult?_

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shook his head, not trusting himself to speak, almost willing Mycroft to go so he could regain some sense of control.

“Take your time,” Mycroft murmured. He closed the door quietly, leaving Greg to himself.

+++

The bath was deep and hot and Greg allowed himself to relax. The swirling emotions in him were soothed by the water, and when he felt calmer, he stood, watching the water drain. The towel slid over his skin and Greg stopped for a moment, sensation threatening to overwhelm him. Fluffy towels, gentle smells of the bath oil, the softness of cotton pyjama pants and t-shirt. Only part of his reflection was visible in the steamed up mirror, but his hair was a disaster. He’d ducked under the water for a moment, relishing the absolute silence the water offered, only his heartbeat pumping in his veins.

As he turned to the door, Greg felt a flutter of something in his chest. This was weird, right? Going over to a mate’s house (if ‘mate’ was the right word for Mycroft, though it seemed to be a stretch), having a bath while he cooked dinner…

_Definitely weird._

Greg checked his hair – kind of acceptable as it was still wet, but he knew it would dry all over the place. Nothing he could do about it here. The rest of him was more or less as it always was – older than he liked to think of himself, a little pudgier in the middle, though the t-shirt was very forgiving. He sighed, pushing back as melancholy tried to sweep over him.

_Not now._

Mycroft was being a good host, the least he could do was make an effort.

Leaving his clothes in something of a pile on the bed in the spare room – it was too weird to think of it as ‘his’ bed – Greg ventured back into the kitchen. Belatedly he recognised the smells of cooking – something with garlic, eggs maybe?

“Hi,” he said, edging around the doorframe, not wanting to get in the way. “Something smells good.”

“Hello,” Mycroft replied. He was sitting at the precisely set table, but rose as soon as Greg entered the room. “An omelette, if you are still hungry?”

“Yeah, that sounds,” _perfect,_ “great, thanks.” Greg sank into one of the chairs as Mycroft moved around the kitchen. He made no attempt at small talk, and Greg wondered if it was awkward for him, being silent when politeness might dictate he speak to his guest. His own brain was soft and slow, somewhere between the lingering sadness of his visit to the church and being lost in the comfort of someone caring for him. In an odd way it reminded Greg of his grandmother – someone making decisions for him, about his wellbeing. Cooking for him.

The omelette Mycroft placed in front of him looked wonderful, curls of steam still rising from the eggs.

“Thanks,” Greg repeated himself.

“Tea?” Mycroft asked, bringing the electric kettle over.

“I thought you’d’ve had some kind of fancy teapot set or something,” Greg murmured as Mycroft set teabags in their mugs and poured the hot water.

“Needs must,” Mycroft murmured. “I wasn’t sure what kind of tea you would prefer, and the kettle is less…”

“Fussy?” Greg suggested.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied.

Greg started eating, tentatively at first then settling into the rhythm as his stomach approved of the meal.

Mycroft monitored their tea, removing tea bags and adding milk – no sugar – to Greg’s without asking.

“You know how I take my tea?” Greg asked in surprise.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. He sat back with his own cup, some kind of herbal variety, Greg could see. His face was impassive, but there was something extra there, some kind of emotion lurking close enough to be seen, just a little.

“What’re you drinking?” Greg asked. Mycroft wasn’t eating, which wasn’t surprising but it did make this feel a bit awkward.

_Why are you being so kind to me?_

“Camomile,” Mycroft told him. “For relaxation. I also have a digestion blend if you would prefer after your meal. Orange, liquorice and mint.”

“Sounds interesting,” Greg replied. Right now he was grateful for the bold, milky version Mycroft had made him to go with his eggs.

Neither added anything else to the conversation, and Greg concentrated on finishing his eggs while Mycroft sipped at his own cup. Greg was glad for the company, quiet as it was. He always found it weird to hold a conversation while he was eating; the admonishment to close his mouth while eating always sounded in his ears, making it difficult. Easier to eat, then talk, if you were that way inclined.

He was glad Mycroft had simply assumed he would stay, making arrangements as such. Maybe it wasn’t as weird for Mycroft as Greg imagined, sitting in his own kitchen sipping tea. Not all that different to what he might be doing anyway.

“That was great,” Greg said, stopping himself from thanking Mycroft for about the sixth time. “Just what I needed.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” Mycroft replied. He took the dishes to the dishwasher, loading it quickly before turning back to Greg. “Can I offer you another cup of tea before you retire?”

“Retire?” Greg repeated. “Am I going somewhere?”

“Not necessarily,” Mycroft replied. His back was turned as he searched through an extensive cupboard of tea, but Greg had the distinct impression he was hiding his face. “I simply assumed my company through your meal would be sufficient and you would prefer now to be alone.”

“No,” Greg said, probably a little too quickly, but he didn’t care. The surprise was evident in the quirk of Mycroft’s eyebrow. “I mean,” he said, then faltered. “Company is…good,” he said finally.

Mycroft passed him his tea without comment.

Greg inhaled. It smelled good – sweet and minty at the same time. “Ta,” he murmured, pretending to lose himself in the swirl of steam for a moment.

“Might I suggest something from the movie library?” Mycroft asked.

“Sure,” Greg replied. He grinned a little. “Bet you haven’t got all my favourites, though.”

“Under different circumstances I might consider that a challenge, Greg,” Mycroft said with pleasure in his eyes and voice. The softness was present again, the beautifully unguarded amusement Greg had finally pinpointed from earlier. It was the first time it had reappeared since his bath; he’d worried Mycroft had consciously tucked it away again.

 _Perhaps not_.

Greg followed Mycroft into a small viewing room, complete with comfortable looking sofa and huge screen.

“Please choose whatever you like,” Mycroft said, offering him the remote control. He hesitated. “I can leave you if would like,” he asked again, and Greg wondered if the man thought he was interfering, pushing his company on someone that didn’t really want it.

_Time to be a little more obvious, Lestrade._

“I’d like you to stay,” Greg said. The words sounded less steady than he’d hoped and he took a sip of tea to cover his nervousness. _Too hot._

Mycroft paused, fingers flexing nervously before nodded.

“How about _Casablanca_?” Greg asked. Using Mycroft’s electronic library had the advantage of showing him when something had last been viewed, so he was able to pick something he knew Mycroft had watched a few times.

“Certainly,” Mycroft said. “Though I warn you, I have a tendency to speak lines along with the characters.”

Greg smiled at him. “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” he replied and pressed play.

Mycroft rolled his eyes but took a seat on the opposite corner to Greg, leaving a respectable distance between them. Every centimetre felt significant, and as he watched Mycroft relax into the familiar movie, Greg felt the air between them settle. It was the most fun Greg had ever had watching _Casablanca_. It was one of his favourites, and he could tell Mycroft enjoyed it; between them they knew almost all the lines.

When Rick and Renault walked off into the fog almost two hours later, Greg sighed. “Love that movie,” he murmured. He felt calmer than he had in many hours.

“Might I ask which aspect of this story you find the most appealing?” Mycroft asked.

Greg looked at him. “I think the not-love-story,” he said eventually. “I mean, it kind of is, but their lives pull them apart, then push them together, you know?” He sighed, the melancholy creeping up on him this time. “Not fate, but not entirely free will either.”

“Yes,” Mycroft answered. “Difficult decisions made no easier by the political situation of the time.”

“Bloody politics,” Greg said, allowing a slightly teasing tone into his voice. “Mess up everything.”

“Not always the fault of the politicians,” Mycroft protested mildly.

“True,” Greg replied. He ginned a little. “Police get blamed for plenty. Most of it comes from the top, doesn’t have anything to do with the rest of us on the street.”

Mycroft nodded, humming to himself.

 _I have no idea what that means. I wish I did._ The realisation sent a slow wave up his spine.

“Do you have any significant Christmas traditions?” Mycroft asked suddenly. He blinked as though he’d surprised himself with the change of direction.

“Not really,” Greg replied. “No family close or anything.” He huffed a laugh. “Work, usually, give the others a chance to get home with their families.”

 _I don’t have any family._ He didn’t need to say it to know Mycroft understood the words.

“Ah,” Mycroft replied, a smile ghosting over his lips. “I must admit a lack of expectation at Christmas would not be terrible.” He paused. “Is there…was there familial tradition when you were younger?”

“Just one,” Greg found himself saying. When Mycroft raised an eyebrow he admitted, “You caught me in it tonight. My Grandmother used to take me to church at Christmas. It reminds me of her, so I usually go.”

 _The minimum information. Try not to sound too pathetic,_ Greg coached himself.

Mycroft nodded. “Our family traditions are quite formal,” he said. “Not something I find brings comfort. You are fortunate to have something to remind you of her.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. He wouldn’t have planned it, but his mouth opened and he found himself speaking. “Doesn’t feel that fortunate.”

Mycroft looked at him, patient and considering. Greg could almost see him deciding whether or not to ask.

“Painful memories?” he ventured finally.

Greg sighed. “Not painful,” he said. “Not…entirely.”

“Complicated,” Mycroft suggested.

“Complicated by Christmas,” Greg said. He was not sure where the words were coming from, yet he said, “I’d always thought I’d be one of the ones doing family time at Christmas, instead of covering extra hours for other people.”

“Your marriage ended badly,” Mycroft stated.

“Yeah.” Greg didn’t have the energy to ask how Mycroft might know that. “Mum and Dad both gone, my sister doesn’t really talk to me. Christmas is pretty quiet anyway.”

Mycroft was quiet for a long time.

“When you spend time in the church,” Mycroft asked, “what do you think about?”

Greg looked up at him, unsure. _How am I having this conversation? Here, with you?_ He swallowed. _What will you think of my answer?_

“If I am prying, please do not feel you need to answer,” Mycroft hastened to add. “I only ask because…” he trailed off. “You said going to church reminds you of your grandmother.”

“She used to take me to services sometimes,” Greg said, the words almost a whisper, barely squeezing past the lump in his throat. “At Christmas. I’ve never…people don’t ask about it.” He saw Mycroft withdrawing a little. “I don’t mind,” he said quietly. “Tonight it’s okay.”

_I don’t know why it is, but it is._

“And you enjoyed those times.”

“Yes,” Greg replied. “It was when I felt closest to her.”

“If I might ask…when you first started visiting church, were you seeking that connection?”

“She died the week before Christmas,” Greg said, familiar pain pulling at his chest. “So, yes. I would go every year to remember her.” A tight smile over his pain. “More often than that, at first.”

“And how long after that did your parents pass away?”

“Five years,” Greg said. “Last week of November.”

Mycroft nodded, his face concentrating. “So their loss became caught up in your Christmas tradition.”

“Yeah,” Greg said slowly. “I guess it did.”

“And your marriage broke down around the same time of year?”

“It was a long time coming, but she left for good when I was at work. Christmas Eve shift.”

Greg could see Mycroft’s mind working, and he wondered what that mind would make of the situation. When serious grey eyes flicked up to meet his, they were tentative, questioning.

 _This feels like an interview. Like he’s digging for something._ Greg considered that, allowed it to settle in his chest for a moment. _I don’t mind._ He felt calm, watching Mycroft’s face change.

“What?” Greg asked.

“I wonder if I might offer an observation,” Mycroft asked carefully.

“Go for it,” Greg whispered. _Please._

“You started your tradition to be close to your grandmother,” Mycroft began. Greg nodded. “I know you were grieving her, but you remembered the good times, correct?”

“Yeah.” _Lavender-Easter-knitting-church…_

“I posit that hose memories have been usurped by other events in your life.”

Greg’s mouth went dry.

“Your visits at Christmas have become more about reflecting on the difficulty of this time of year than about your memories of your grandmother.”

The words hung in the air between them. Greg could feel the goose bumps rising on his arms as the truth of Mycroft’s idea settled over him. Grey eyes watched apprehensively as the truth bloomed in his brain.

_Christ, he’s right._

He only ever visited at Christmas now. More often than not, his family would creep into his thoughts; how could they not, with the events of that time of year being what they were? Two of the most significant events – _losses_ – of his adult life, raw and smarting, forever entwined with that time of the year, colouring it with grief and loneliness. But it meant he spent more time thinking about the loss of his grandmother rather than the fond memories. The memories he had been seeking all those years ago when he first stepped into a church alone, two days before Christmas.

“How did you know that?” Greg asked. His voice was shaking, right out of his control.

Mycroft tilted his head. “We have known each other for many years, Greg,” he said carefully. “I feel I might claim to know your mind at least in a small measure by now.”

“That’s a fair statement.” Greg huffed a laugh. Now that it was out in the open, it was a strange feeling.

“What was she like?” Mycroft asked. “Your grandmother.”

The gentle, kind offer was threaded around Mycroft’s words. _Find the happiness again. Share it with me, if you will._

Greg found himself smiling before he even realised. “She was lovely. Took me to church as a small boy, and it was such a treat; quiet time for her and I. She never took my sister, it was just for us.”

Mycroft smiled, encouraging him, and Greg found himself rambling, sharing all sorts of memories, the things that reminded him of her. It wasn’t until Mycroft shifted his weight he trailed off, flushing as he realised how long he’d talked about it.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Got a bit carried away there.”

“I feel honoured you would share those memories with me,” Mycroft replied, his eyes soft. His head tilted again. “How do you feel?”

Greg considered the question. Embarrassed he’d rambled, sure, but he knew Mycroft wasn’t really asking that.

“Lighter,” he said, and it was true. The memories of his grandmother had done what they used to do, what they always did before the rest of his life had taken over. “More peaceful.”

“Good,” Mycroft said. He leaned over and picked up the remote. “If you have no objections…”

Greg had no idea what he was talking about, waiting as Mycroft pressed buttons. As he drained the last of his tea, the first strains of _Silent Night_ filled the room. A traditional recording, choir and strings, it made Greg smile.

“No objections,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. They sat quietly through several carols, quiet, dignified traditional airs. Greg found himself relaxing, dipping again into the Christmas memories of his grandmother. They were mainly food-based he discovered, when his stomach gave an embarrassingly loud rumble.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Remembering the baking we used to do.”

“Christmas baking is certainly evocative as far as memories go,” Mycroft agreed. He paused. “What do you remember being your favourite?”

“Mince pies,” Greg said immediately. “She’d make the pastry by hand. Never let me forget the year I tried.” He grinned a little. “You just had to look at it and it crumbled.”

“Not enough liquid,” Mycroft said sagely. “Or too much fat.”

“You bake, then,” Greg said.

Mycroft’s blush was fierce and immediate. Greg felt his heart lift a little at learning this detail about Mycroft. _Something I didn’t know about you. Something personal._

“On occasion,” Mycroft murmured.

“Anyway, she was in charge of pastry for the next few years.”

“And what was your area of responsibility?” Mycroft asked.

“My job was the egg wash,” Greg said, “and official taste tester, of course.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated. “I do make a small batch each year, if you would like to try one.”

“You made mince pies?” Greg asked. He could feel his eyes widen, and a laugh escaped before he could stop it. “That’s brilliant.”

“Brilliant?” Mycroft repeated. “That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?” Greg couldn’t help asking. Mycroft’s expression was of gentle astonishment, and Greg also couldn’t stop his brain wondering if that was what he would look like if Greg kissed him.

_Hardly the time._

“I don’t usually tell people,” Mycroft admitted. “The few non-family members who know were less impressed and more…”

“Critical?” Greg suggested.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. His eyes met Greg’s and something stretched out between them. “Shall we?”

“Sure,” Greg said. He felt drained after such a long emotional evening but there was a warm glow surrounding the gentle regret at his grandmother’s loss. The thinnest whisper of possibility curled around it, infusing him with something he’d long forgotten.

_Hope._

Mycroft picked up their mugs and lead the way into the kitchen. His fingers were curled self-consciously about the small container he withdrew from a cupboard, offering it hesitantly to Greg.

“Wow, these look amazing.” Greg’s amazement was genuine. “Did you make these too?” The tops were decorated with tiny pastry shapes; holly leaves and berries on one, a Christmas tree on another, decorated with tiny pinpricks for baubles.

“I find the concentration required helps me relax…” Mycroft trailed off.

“Well, they look excellent.”

“A little pale, perhaps,” Mycroft said critically. “I am not sure the egg wash was sufficient.”

“Should have asked me to help,” Greg said without thinking.

Mycroft was staring. “Perhaps next year,” he said.

 _Next year…_ Greg’s heart pounded at the idea.

“Well, the proof is in the eating,” Greg said, shooting a cheeky grin as he bit into the pastry. He could feel Mycroft’s eyes on him as he savoured the filling, sweet and tart, the smell of cinnamon and spices filling his nose.

“Not bad,” he said, swallowing. “Definitely needs a few more minutes. Or a better egg-wash.”

Mycroft stiffened at his first words, then relaxed as Greg’s teasing tone became evident. “But how does it compare to your grandmother’s recipe?” he asked, eyes dancing. “Bearing in mind it is rude to offend your host, of course.”

“Well,” Greg replied, dusting his hands theatrically, “I’ll have to sample a decent few before I can make any real statement either way.”

“I’ll put the kettle on again,” Mycroft said. He began to move, then turned back, raising one hand. Before Greg could move he felt fingers brush at the edge of his mouth. “Crumbs,” Mycroft murmured, his face flushing again.

Greg’s heart thundered, and before he could do more than register that his jaw dropping open Mycroft was gone, fussing with the kettle. The strains of music from the sitting room were all but obliterated by the sound of his pulse in his ears. His lip tingled where Mycroft touched him.

The strands of possibility had thickened considerably into ropes now squeezing tight around his chest.

_Did he just…_

Was that…Greg couldn’t tell. This was definitely not ‘mates’ any longer. Not with the admissions made on both side; Greg had barely spoken about his family to anyone, yet it had felt entirely natural to share with Mycroft. And there was only one reason you brushed food from the edge of someone’s mouth...His skin was still tingling from Mycroft’s touch, and Greg berated himself for his lack of response.

“Same again?” Mycroft asked, holding up the box of tea.

“Yes please,” Greg replied. He was hyper aware of himself now, his hands resting on the bench, the way his weight shifted restlessly on the floor. Mycroft’s t-shirt on his shoulders.

_Definitely not mates, and maybe even…_

When Mycroft turned with their tea, Greg didn’t move until Mycroft raised his eyes. He looked carefully, searching, wondering if he was right to think what he thought.

_Nobody makes that kind of offer to a colleague._

Mycroft frowned a little, but Greg held his eyes, probing, feeling his breath come faster and his cheeks flush pink. It wasn’t until he saw the grey eyes widen and flick down to his mouth and back that Greg relaxed a little.

When Mycroft swallowed, Greg smiled. The warm glow expanded, the ropes of possibility swelling to fill every fibre of him.

_I was right._

Raising another mince pie to his lips, Greg bit into it, deliberately allowing the flaky pastry to cling to his lips. He raised his eyebrow a little.

An invitation, if Mycroft had the courage.

He swallowed again, eyes calm, though Greg could see his fingers tightening on the bench.

_I could do it, but I want to be sure. Want to know he really wants this._

Deliberately, Greg stuck his tongue out, licking at one corner of his mouth. He did it in slow motion, watching Mycroft watching him. It was far more brazen than he would ever usually try, but this felt right.

_Come on, Mycroft. Please._

Another moment, half a dozen heart beats and an audible swallow. Fingers tensed again and Mycroft’s mouth dropped open to match Greg’s. Surely, he couldn’t misunderstand this.

Greg watched another second of agonized indecision before Mycroft shifted his weight, slowly skirting the bench. Greg turned his body to face Mycroft, careful to keep his posture open. Encouraging. Willing him on.

“Greg,” Mycroft said. His voice was questioning, a thread of fear drawn through it. “You are…are you feeling well?”

“Yes,” Greg replied. “You’ve helped me this evening, Mycroft. Helped me see how things have changed. How I’ve changed.”

“It is harder to see from within,” Mycroft replied. He was standing close enough for Greg to see his Adam’s apple bob with his nervous swallow.

“Not just with my grandmother,” Greg whispered. “Other things change, slowly over time, and you don’t always…realise.” He stepped forward, Mycroft’s face almost filling his vision. “It’s harder to see from within,” he added, his own eyes on Mycroft’s mouth, the tempting pink of his inner lip barely visible.

Mycroft swayed forward, just enough for Greg to catch his breath. Close enough to tempt. Not close enough to touch, to Greg’s consternation.

“Please,” Greg whispered. “Mycroft.”

The next breath and Mycroft stepped forward with the motion of his torso swaying, and this was enough, enough to press against Greg’s willing mouth.

Greg’s groan was smothered, taken into Mycroft’s mouth; it felt unbearably intimate, and Greg shuddered with it.

Perhaps Mycroft thought he was going to fall, because hands pressed onto Greg’s hips, the heat burning through to his skin.

Greg pressed closer, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s neck. The action made his t-shirt ride up, bringing Mycroft’s hands flush against his skin. Burning, and now the tiny motions were discernible, the trembling where fingers rubbed circles of fire.

They kissed for what felt like hours, Greg’s world filled to the brim with Mycroft’s scent, his taste rich with shadows of mince pie. The feel of his hands on Greg’s skin, inching around his waist, tentatively stroking his back in time with his lips against Greg’s throat made him groan.

As Greg’s mind reeled from the sensation, a small part of him registered an abrupt change to the music. Something about the rich wall of voices broke through. When he realised what it was, he couldn’t help it.

He pulled away, laughing breathlessly, pressing weakly against Mycroft.

“Is that the Hallelujah Chorus?” he asked, pressing kisses against Mycroft’s throat, shaking with the happiness now threatening to burst out of his every pore.

“I believe so,” Mycroft replied, his own words soft against Greg’s skin. “Fairly apt, all things considered.”

Greg pulled him in again, the hug tight and almost desperate. His heart soared as he felt Mycroft’s arms close around him, holding him as close as he was being held. It was a small detail, perhaps, but Greg felt it keenly.

_He wants me, too._

“I think the crumbs are gone,” Greg said, pulling back a little so Mycroft could see his face.

“I believe they are,” Mycroft murmured.

One thumb came up to trace his lips and Greg shivered again. “Thank you,” he said, the emotion of the moment surprising him. “Thank you for helping me remember why I started that Christmas tradition in the first place.”

“You are most welcome,” Mycroft replied, eyes shining with warmth.

“And I’m sorry to say,” Greg added, cheeky grin returning to his face, “that I don’t believe your mince pies are equal to my grandmother’s.”

“Really,” Mycroft said flatly.

“Oh, they have potential,” Greg assured him, “but I have her recipe, if you’re interested.”

“I would say I hold a level of interest in that direction,” Mycroft replied. “I suspect you won’t be giving up family recipes so easily, however.”

“If you’re lucky, you might get it for Christmas,” Greg said.

“We’re doing Christmas presents?” Mycroft said in surprise.

“I know what I want,” Greg told him. “No thought required on your behalf. In fact, wait here a second.”

Mycroft frowned but complied when Greg gently extricated himself from their embrace. Greg scampered from the room, grinning to himself as he fiddled with the controls on the audio system.

“Hang on,” he called. Giving up on the whole thing, he grabbed his phone instead. Finding YouTube here was much easier than navigating Mycroft’s system.

“Here we go,” he said, a little out of breath as he returned to the kitchen. He turned up the volume and watched Mycroft’s face for the moment when he recognised the song.

As the first strains of _All I want for Christmas is You_ came blaring out of Greg’s phone, Mycroft’s face softened, and he gave Greg a look.

“Not a challenging gift to procure,” he said, winding his arms around Greg. “Of course, the papering might be difficult…”

“But I’ll definitely enjoy the unwrapping,” Greg countered. The last of the song was lost in their kiss, but it didn’t matter.

Greg knew their own Christmas tradition – carols and mince pies – was beginning right here.


End file.
